INDIAN CATTLE AT MONTPELIER—PALMER MONUMENT IN MONTEGO BAY PARISH CHURCH—AMERICANS
After winding through the mountainous regions of the Cockpit Country, the train traverses a part known as Surinam Quarters. When the Dutch settled here in 1672 they intermarried with the negroes, and the whole of this section is peopled by their descendants. The next place of importance on the line is Montpelier, where there is a capital hotel. Here many people stay and drive the 10 miles, or so, down to Montego Bay. I had friends to meet at the last-named place, where I had heard of comfortable quarters, which, however, could not compare with the accommodation provided at Montpelier Hotel. In the vicinity there are two large estates owned by a wealthy Englishman, the Hon. Evelyn Ellis, who imported from India at great cost the famous Zebu and Mysore cattle; one can see in rambling over this neighbourhood their silver-gray hides and curious shapes. They were imported for labour and breeding purposes. The offspring of these Indian cattle when crossed with the native animal make the most useful stock for draft on sugar estates. These grazing pens are far-famed, and cover thousands of acres; enormous herds of cattle roam over them. I did not visit the tobacco fields and cigar factory here, though I believe they are most interesting. Neither did I take the coach, which runs between Montpelier and Savanna-la-Mar, 24 miles away on the south coast of the island, which is a most interesting and prosperous little seaport. Its one street, they say, is made from ships’ ballast dumped down there by vessels loading with sugar. This road passes another famous pen, that of Knockalava, the property of Lord Malcolm, who has imported specimens of the celebrated Hereford breed of cattle at great expense. Besides these breeds the Ayrshire, Devon, Shorthorn, and East Indian are all represented in the island breeds.
The demand for cattle for working in the cane-fields has been the reason of grazing farms having reached their importance in the commercial and agricultural development of Jamaica, the result being that the selection of cows for milking purposes has been little considered. For those interested in farming I note that four-year-old steers, broken to the yoke, vary from £20 to £30 per pair, costing about £7 a head to raise. Hindu cattle fetch the highest prices, on account of their quickness and powers of endurance, added to which they stand the heat better than other breeds. I was told that sheep do not compare favourably with other live stock, although I never tasted better mutton than I did at Mandeville.
As the train emerges from a tunnel high above sea-level the most beautiful view is obtained of Montego Bay, which derives its name from manteca, the Spanish for “hog lard,” and carries one back to the days of the occupation of the Spaniard when lard was shipped from this port in large quantities. During the two last centuries, the place was the centre of the sugar industry; since its failure it has resurrected itself again in the fruit trade.
No more lovely panoramic view of bay, islands, town, and green cane-fields could be found than the one I looked down upon, as descending a fairly steep but circuitous gradient, we approached the plain beneath. The little coral atolls, known as the Bogue Islands, are extremely interesting, and their shape and circular formation can nowhere better be seen than before the station is reached.
The little town presents nothing of any importance to describe. Like all West Indian urban resorts, the dust is ever with you. I drove to my destination, “Miss Harrison, on the Hill.” A very loquacious driver whirled me through the long street, then round a sharp corner, another to the left, and then, lashing his emaciated-looking horses, he drove them up a steep ascent over stones, projecting rocks, anything and everything, at the top of which, on a sloping declivity, he skilfully turned the conveyance round so that I should step out at the entrance. I am not naturally nervous, having been used to horses in an old country home, and I suppose driven them since I was big enough to be trusted with reins; but Heaven is my witness that nothing but a philosophical mental review of the chances against my being the first one of “Miss Harrison on the Hill’s” guests to come to grief kept me spell-bound on the back part of the shandry-dan belonging to her establishment. I went up a stone flight of steps leading to the living apartments of what seemed to me a very curiously Continental-looking house, built on the side of the hill, but from the windows of which, with their little quaint balconies in front, a magnificent view of the setting sun showed crimson and gold between palm-leaves and bougainvillia, the latter adorning the front of the house. Miss Harrison, an ancient coloured lady, introduced herself to me. She told me she owned the house, and that her father was Scotch; she also showed me, with some pride, her grandchildren. I did not press her to tell me any more of her family history, but, asking for some hot water, was shown by “Vaseline” to my room.
It is curious to hear some of the names bestowed in baptism upon the children by their parents, whose right to so name them is unquestionable.
A clergyman once was requested to christen twins by the names of Wray and Nephew.
He hesitated. “Where did you hear of these names?” he asked, for, being a total abstainer, he was unacquainted with them.
“On de rum bottle, massa,” was the black’s reply.